Search

I bought this rocking horse at the local flea market about three weeks ago. I figured it would make a nice Christmas gift for my Amish girlfriend’s two little children. When you squeeze the ears one side makes the horse shake his head and whinny, and the other side makes a clip-clop noise.The dog was not at all sure he liked it, sniffing and growling at the thing. The cat ran into the kitchen to see what was going on, and slammed on the brakes, skidding several feet. He took one look, arched his back and hissed! You’d have thought I’d have brought in a live animal into the house!

I went to the dermatologist on Thursday morning to see about a persistent sore on the corner of my mouth. No biggie, he told me. It is essentially a bit of chapped lips. When you curl up on your side to sleep, you drool a bit. Everybody does, and sometimes it causes this sort of thing. He prescribed an ointment which would both clear up the sore and form a barrier between the skin and the moisture.

I went over to the drugstore on Friday morning and was told they had to order the cream, as they didn’t have that size in stock. Hmm.

Went I went back yesterday afternoon, the clerk handed me a bag which seemed a bit heavy. I’ve posed the jar beside a two cup measure so you can see how large this baby actually is. A bloody pound of the stuff! I’m seventy-six years old! I won’t live long enough to use all of it!

What was the doctor thinking? No wonder the girl said they didn’t have this size on the shelf! It would have cost me the same price for a small tube as it did for this washtub, but the wastefulness of it just blows me away.

There is an article in today’s Baltimore Sun in which the man in yesterday’s post both explained and apologized for his outburst. I have edited it and omitted his name.

He stated that the play, Fiddler on the Roof, reminded him of Donald Trump’s policies. His comparison “came out wrong” and was “beyond a mistake”. “Instantly it was like, ‘Oh my God, what did you do?’ The thing that I can’t stand is Trump spreading hatred, and what did I do? I spread hatred.”

So – it was, indeed, beyond a mistake, and well beyond stupid, but at least he admitted it and apologized, although his life will never be the same.

About two years ago Blazer decided he had enough seniority to sleep in Poppa’s recliner instead of on the floor. Poppa did not agree and kept a large cardboard box on the seat of the chair. A couple of days ago I found the box on the floor and assumed the cat had pushed it off while he was getting cozy.

Blazer does have a good thick pillow, courtesy of Local Granddaughter, so he’s not sleeping on the bare floor. Because the floor is admittedly cold, I had found an old, threadbare, flannel sheet and put it over the puppy every night, carefully tucking him in. Sometimes Blazer will get out of bed after he’s gone down for the night, and wanders around with the sheet over his back, The Ghost of Winters Past.

This morning I found the sheet on the floor next to the recliner. I’m not ratting on him, but it doesn’t take much to figure out where he’d spent the night!

Both The Squire and I have been tracing our family trees. Mine sort of fizzles out after the German side arrived in America, but he has gotten parts of his tree back to 9-something in France and the 1100s in Wales. That gets tricky, as he’s back to the “ap” names. Ap is the Welsh equivalent of the Arabic bin or the Hebrew bar, and you really have to pay attention.

We are accustomed to people posting odd things to their trees, such as John Singer Sargent’s portrait of Madame X stuck in to represent a lady from the court of Henry VIII, or Botticelli’s Portrait of a Young Woman who was supposed to be Henrietta Marie of England! So – one of his ancestors is John Rogers, the Martyr, who was burned at the stake by Bloody Mary. This morning The Squire was putzing around on-line when he found a new link to Mr. Rogers. One woman had posted a newspaper article, written by Daisy Dahlrymple, and included a photo. The article was quite informative, except for the fact that Miss Dahlrymple is a fictitious character, a journalist in Hampshire, England.